


i'll let you in (but i'm so scared of what you'll see)

by splendidlyimperfect



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Universe, Consent Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, Geralt has some consent issues, Geraskier Week, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Holding Hands, Jaskier is very patient with him, M/M, Minor Injuries, Self-Esteem Issues, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splendidlyimperfect/pseuds/splendidlyimperfect
Summary: Geralt is weird about touch, and Jaskier is determined to find out why.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 194
Kudos: 2617
Collections: Best Geralt, these bitches gay! good for them!!





	i'll let you in (but i'm so scared of what you'll see)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Geraskier Week 2020; Day 3: Protection
> 
> Title from 'Warrior' by Paradise Fears
> 
> Find me on tumblr as [@splendidlyimperfect](https://splendidlyimperfect.tumblr.com/)

_so i'll let you in  
__but i'm so scared of what you'll see  
__just skin and bones  
hiding this monster inside of me  
_\- warrior, paradise fears

Geralt is weird about touch.

Jaskier expects him to hate it. He’s been around plenty of people in his travels, and Geralt seems like the kind of person who would break someone’s wrist before letting them hold his hand. Not that Jaskier’s tried to hold his hand – he’s brash, not stupid. But he’s an affectionate person, and that extends to Geralt, even by accident.

The thing is, Geralt doesn’t seem to mind. At first, it’s little things – a hand on the small of Geralt’s back when he passes by, a light touch on his forearm when Jaskier’s telling a story, bumping shoulders or knocking feet under a table. Jaskier is allowed to grab Geralt’s arm for balance or sit next to him at the campfire with their thighs pressed together.

What’s even stranger is that Geralt seems to _like_ it. He’ll tip his head into Jaskier’s hand while Jaskier is washing his hair or lean in when Jaskier sits next to him and puts a hand on his knee. He never says anything and neither does Jaskier, but it becomes a sort of routine for them.

And that would be the end of the story, except for two strange things that leave Jaskier feeling unsettled. One, Geralt is never the one to initiate the touch. Ever. It’s not that Geralt _won’t_ touch Jaskier, it’s just that whenever he does, it’s only for long enough to get him out of harm’s way. Geralt will grab Jaskier’s shoulder and drag him away from monsters or lift Jaskier onto Roach when he’s cold and sick. He’ll push Jaskier out of the way of danger, help him up a difficult climb with a hand on his elbow, or pull him away from the edge of something dangerous by the back of his doublet.

But when Jaskier is not in immediate danger, Geralt won’t touch him. In fact, sometimes it’s the exact opposite, and he’ll go out of his way to _not_ touch Jaskier which ends up with them doing some sort of ridiculous dance around the campfire or the room at the inn to give each other space.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier tries to say one time when Geralt holds onto his arm for a few seconds too long after catching him tripping over a rock, then pulls back like he’s been burned. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt grunts and shakes his head, then stalks off to collect more firewood.

Jaskier sighs and continues to set up camp.

The second thing that Jaskier notices is that even when Geralt is uncomfortable with being touched, he never says ‘no.’ The first time it happens, they’re in an inn in some town with a name that Jaskier can’t remember. Jaskier’s off playing for the crowd when he sees a young woman leaning against Geralt’s table, her hand resting on his shoulder as she talks to him. Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s face from where he’s standing, but he _knows,_ somehow, that Geralt is not happy about this.

When he tries to bring it up later that night, Geralt stares at him blankly, then shrugs before rolling over and going to sleep.

After that, Jaskier sees it more often. A lord will leave his hand on Geralt’s arm for too long and Geralt’s jaw will tighten, but he won’t push the man away. Some drunkard in the tavern will slap Geralt’s shoulder and while his expression will shift to something unpleasant, he won’t remove the offending hand (with his sword or otherwise).

So Jaskier waits and watches. He’s more careful with his touches – he would absolutely never touch Geralt if he said ‘no,’ Jaskier is not that kind of man and it makes him sick to think about it. But while Geralt never says ‘no,’ he also never touches Jaskier, and the whole thing is a confusing clusterfuck that Jaskier is determined to figure out.

* * *

“You,” Jaskier says one evening after Geralt returns to their room at the inn, drenched in something reddish-brown that Jaskier doesn’t want to think about, “need a bath.”

“Hm.”

Eloquent as ever. Jaskier rolls his eyes, gesturing to the hot water he’s already had prepared. Geralt has been tense and grouchy all day, and Jaskier’s hoping that, in addition to washing off the monster guts, a bath will help him relax.

Geralt sighs when he sinks into the warm water, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. His hair is tangled and full of things Jaskier would rather not think about, and it desperately needs to be washed. Normally, Jaskier would sit down and start scrubbing without a second thought, but now he pauses.

“Can I help you?” he asks, sitting down on the stool next to the tub. Geralt opens an eye and frowns at him. “With your hair,” Jaskier clarifies, gesturing to the tangled mess.

“You always help me,” Geralt says, which isn’t exactly the response Jaskier’s looking for. 

“Well, yes,” Jaskier says, leaning onto the edge of the tub but not touching Geralt. “But you’ve been a bit… touchy today.” He flicks water at Geralt’s chest. “You scowled so hard at the innkeeper that I was certain he was going to faint.”

Geralt’s brow furrows further. “How is that related to bathing?” he asks.

“No, not…” Jaskier sighs. “I thought perhaps you’d appreciate some space.”

“Space?”

“Yes, Geralt. If you’d prefer to be alone, I can leave for a bit. Not all night, mind you – it’s been a week since I’ve slept in a bed and I’ll be damned if I spend another—”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with my hair.”

Jaskier sighs. “Look, when I’m in a mood – and you _are_ in a mood, don’t try to deny it – I don’t always want people touching me. It’s suffocating, sometimes. Which is why I’m asking if you _want_ my help or would prefer to be left alone.”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away. The perplexed expression stays on his face and he looks down at the surface of the water, then back up at Jaskier. “I… like it when you help me.”

Jaskier tries to keep a smile from stealing across his face. “I like helping you,” he says, dipping his fingers in the water and splashing some at Geralt.

“So…”

“Do you _want_ me to help you?”

“I just said I did.”

“You didn’t, though,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “You said you liked it. Just because you like something doesn’t mean you want it all the time.” He can feel the confused frustration radiating from Geralt, so he tries different tactic. “Like wine, for example. I love wine, it’s delicious and makes me feel good, but some days I just don’t want it, or perhaps I’ve had too much, or maybe I’ve eaten something that doesn’t agree with me and—”

“Jaskier.”

“Right, yes, sorry. My point is that sometimes I don’t want wine, even though I like it, so when someone asks me if I want some, I say ‘no.’ Even if last time I said ‘yes.’”

Geralt is quiet for a long time, eventually letting out a sigh and nudging Jaskier’s hands in the water. “Yes,” he says roughly. “I want your help.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says, giving Geralt a bright smile. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

* * *

After that, Geralt is slightly more vocal about what he wants. If he notices that Jaskier asks him for permission nearly every time they touch, he doesn’t mention it. He rarely says ‘no,’ which Jaskier takes as a good sign, but Geralt still won’t initiate touch. Jaskier gives him plenty of opportunities – leaving his hand settled between them while sitting by the campfire, sitting close but not quite touching at a table – but Geralt never makes a move.

Two weeks later, Jaskier finally gets an answer. They’re fighting an ankheg, which is basically a cross between an enormous praying mantis and the things from Jaskier’s worst nightmares – and Jaskier nearly loses his right ear. Geralt makes short work of the creature, then slings Jaskier’s arm over his shoulder and helps him back to camp, cursing under his breath the whole time.

“’s not so bad,” Jaskier says weakly, wincing as he leans back against a stone. Geralt grunts, taking Jaskier’s hand and pressing it against the torn shirt over the wound.

“Stay here.”

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier says, using his other hand to wipe away the blood dripping over his eye. “I was planning on going… to… a place…”

“Jaskier.” Geralt reappears, crouching down in front of Jaskier. “Be quiet.”

“Look,” Jaskier says, but he can feel the words softening and slurring as they slip from his lips. “I…”

Geralt shushes him again. “Hold still,” he says. “This will hurt.” Then gently removes the shirt from the wound and, before Jaskier can protest, tips the wineskin over it to rinse it.

“Son of a—” Jaskier grits his teeth, grabbing Geralt’s forearm and breathing heavily through his nose.

“It’s not too deep,” Geralt says roughly. “Only a few sutures.”

“Lovely,” Jaskier mumbles, then falls forward against Geralt and faints.

* * *

When he comes to, Jaskier is warm and comfortable. He’s covered with a blanket and laying against something soft, and he can feel gentle fingers combing through his hair. When he cracks one eye open, it takes him a second to orient himself and realize that he’s lying near the fire with his head in Geralt’s lap.

As soon as Geralt realizes Jaskier’s awake, he tenses.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling his hand away from Jaskier’s hair. He starts to shuffle away and Jaskier reaches up, grabbing his wrist and stopping him.

“Geralt,” he says slowly, staring up into dark, uncertain eyes. “It’s okay.”

Geralt doesn’t look convinced. “You kept moving,” he says roughly, tugging at Jaskier’s grasp on his wrist. “In your sleep. I didn’t want you to tear the sutures.”

Jaskier winces at the mention of the wound behind his ear, but he pushes away the dull pain to focus on the incredibly uncomfortable expression on Geralt’s face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently. Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it again, then turns away and glares at the fire as if it’s somehow at fault for this predicament. “Geralt.” He grunts and refuses to look back at Jaskier. “Why do you hate touching me?”

That drags Geralt’s gaze back, but now the uncertainty in his expression is muddied with confusion. “What?”

“You hate touching me,” Jaskier says again. It’s strange, looking at Geralt upside down, but Jaskier’s sure that if he moves, Geralt will run away and they’ll never talk about this again. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” The answer is quick and decisive.

“Then why are you pulling away?”

“I’m—”

“I like it,” Jaskier says, hoping the hot flush in his cheeks is obscured by the dim light of the fire. “I like you touching my hair. It’s nice.” He makes sure Geralt is looking at him before adding, “I want you to.”

Geralt huffs. “I’m not…” He growls, rubbing his face. “I’m not like you.”

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not…” He sighs, staring down at Jaskier’s hand on his wrist. “Gentle.”

“You’re not gentle?”

“Mm.”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment, studying Geralt’s face. “Why would you say that?”

Geralt mumbles something that Jaskier doesn’t quiet catch.

“Geralt, you have to—”

“I’m not human,” Geralt growls, pulling his hand away. “My hands are for killing and hunting and breaking things. They hold swords and break bones and choke the life from monsters. They—”

“Save lives,” Jaskier interrupts, slowly pushing himself up until he’s kneeling in front of Geralt. He reaches out and takes Geralt’s hand in both of his, holding it between them and running his thumbs across Geralt’s palm. “Geralt, you’re not a monster.”

“Tell that to everyone else.”

“I do!” Jaskier insists. “All the time! Do you even listen to the songs I write?”

“They’re just stories,” Geralt grumbles, shaking his head. “None of it—that’s not how it happens.”

“Not always,” Jaskier concedes. “That’s because the truth isn’t always ballad-worthy. But you are.”

Geralt makes a frustrated sound but doesn’t pull away from Jaskier’s gentle touch.

“The fact that you’re worried about hurting me proves that you’re not a monster,” Jaskier says, curling Geralt’s fingers over his. “Your hands do wonderful things. They build fires to keep us warm, they feed Roach, they carry me out of danger, they sew up wounds. They save people.” He carefully brings Geralt’s hand up to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the knuckles. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” Geralt insists, but he doesn’t pull away. “Everyone else is.”

“Everyone else is an idiot,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. “And you are too, if you think you’re some broken monster who only hurts things. I trust you with my life. You’ve never given me any reason not to. In fact, I feel safer with you than without you.”

Geralt is quiet for a long time. The only indication that he’s been listening is the way he tips his hand and begins to slowly run his thumb across Jaskier’s knuckles, but it’s enough.

“You feel safe with me,” he says eventually, gaze still focused on the fire. It’s not really a question, but Jaskier nods anyway, just in case. “You enjoy me touching you.” Another nod. “And you like… touching me, as well?”

“Yes, but only if you want me to.”

“Like the wine,” Geralt replies, nodding thoughtfully. 

“Yes.” Jaskier chews on his bottom lip, hoping that the look on Geralt’s face means he understands. “Yes, like the wine. And if you never wanted… wine again, that would be fine. Wine isn’t necessary, it’s just nice, but I also like water. So if I _was_ thirsty, I wouldn’t necessarily need…” He trails off, frowning.

“Your metaphor is confusing,” Geralt says helpfully.

“Yes, I’m starting to realize that,” Jaskier says. “What I _mean_ is that you don’t owe me – or anyone – anything.”

Geralt contemplates the statement. “You’re kind to me,” he says, voice low as he keeps his eyes on the fire, just past Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier’s heart crumples a little. “I’m kind to you because it’s the right thing to do and you deserve it,” he says gently. “Not because I’m trying to… get in your pants, or anything like that.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Pants?”

Jaskier huffs. “Honestly, if you don’t know how I feel about you by this point, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.” He frowns at Geralt. “You do know, don’t you?”

“I might,” Geralt says uncertainly. His thumb is still rubbing absently across Jaskier’s knuckles.

“Well, just so that we’re _crystal_ clear,” Jaskier says, “I care for you. I’m very fond of you, in fact, and I enjoy touching you – if you want me to – and I enjoy it when you touch me.” Geralt doesn’t say anything, but Jaskier’s fairly certain he can see a hint of a smile at the corner of Geralt’s lips. “And,” Jaskier adds, sitting back on his heels, “even if you never wanted me to touch you, I would still care for you. My feelings aren’t dependent on… this.” He gestures at their joined hands.

Geralt is silent for a while, then exhales in a quiet hum. Jaskier sees right through it to the question underneath – _you trust me?_

“I do,” he says, laughing at the look of surprise on Geralt’s face.

“Hm.”

“Yes.”

A yawn catches Jaskier by surprise and he realizes, suddenly, how exhausted he is.

“Right,” he says, rubbing his face. “I think that’s enough talking for now, don’t you? Of course you do, you think anything more than monosyllables is too much.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, then leans back against the log. There’s a silent question in the way he doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand.

“I would very much like it,” Jaskier says, “if I could sleep with my head in your lap and you would touch my hair like you were doing before. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes,” Geralt says.

“And perhaps,” Jaskier adds lightly as he settles down, “tomorrow you might let me kiss you.”

Geralt doesn’t answer at first, just settles down and starts to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. The touch is so careful that Jaskier barely feels it – like Geralt thinks Jaskier might break if he pushes too hard. Jaskier sighs at the sensation, tipping his head back and staring at the stars that are spilled across the night sky.

Just before he falls asleep, he hears Geralt’s voice, barely louder than the crackling of the fire.

“Tomorrow,” he says softly, “I just might.”


End file.
